


TARDIS Knows Best

by gingerjay



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Common Cold, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fic, Sick Doctor, Sickfic, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6873808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerjay/pseuds/gingerjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes to the Doctor and his Clara, sometimes she does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TARDIS Knows Best

“No, absolutely not, do you hear me?” 

Clara spoke in a whisper, rattling the TARDIS door handle as hard as she could without attracting outside attention. 

“You can’t park in the supply room again," she continued.  "I just cleaned up the mess from the last time you did this.” 

She gave a final hard push on the door and it swung open.  She sidled in through the narrow opening, taking a quick glance around the dim interior.  The console room appeared to be deserted.

“I mean it, Doctor,” she said, hoping he was somewhere listening.  “I don’t care what’s happening, you and your ship clear out.  There are already rumors circulating that I use this room for illicit activities and I don’t—“ 

She stopped as her foot encountered a weighty, unyielding mass.  She glanced down in surprise at the Doctor, lying on his side against the grating, his head pillowed on one arm.  She nudged him with the toe of her ballet flat, more gently this time. 

“Hey,” she said.

He rolled to his back, blinking and massaging his forehead with one hand. “Clara,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” she said.  “What are you doing on the floor?”

“Dying, I think.”

“Sorry to hear it.” She held a hand out to him.  “Now come on, up you get.”

He grasped her around the wrist and she winced when she felt how cold and clammy his skin felt against hers.  It took an effort to raise him to a seated position. He sagged over his knees, head hanging limply.

“Doctor, I’m not sure if you heard me.”

“Yes, I heard you,” he said without looking up.  “I’m certain classrooms full of children on the opposite side of the school heard you.  Didn’t help my headache at all.”

“Then do as I ask and leave,” she said, and then his words sank in.  “Just a moment, did you say you had a headache?”

Clara crouched near him and lifted his head with one finger under his chin. 

“A little more light, please,” she called. 

He moaned and shielded his eyes with a hand as the lighted roundels brightened.  Clara sighed as she took his pale complexion, feverish flush on his cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes. 

“Thought so,” she said.  “You sounded wretched the other day, sniffling and sneezing all over the place.  I knew you were coming down with a cold.  Didn’t I say as much?”

He brushed her hand away and regained his feet slowly. 

“Yes, the all-knowing Clara Oswald,” he said, leaning his entire weight against the console.  “You needn’t sound so smug about it.”

“I’m not smug,” she said.  “Do you think I wanted you to be ill?” 

He shook his head, pressing a loosely-clasped fist to his nose, using the other hand to search his pockets. Clara took the hint and snatched a clean hanky from her jumper pocket but before she could hand it over, his entire body convulsed with a loud sneeze.  An angry surge rose from the engines and then settled quickly.

“You’re right,” Clara agreed.  “That was disgusting.” 

He muttered an apology and turned from her to blow his nose.  Something in his defeated posture, the way he stood with shoulders hunched made her take pity on him and she gave him a gentle push toward the jump chair.

“You need to sit down,” she said.   

He didn’t waste time arguing and fell into the seat, letting his head drop against the back of the chair.  He sniffled and suddenly Clara was transported back through his timeline, a wave of tenderness filling her at the memory of sitting by the side of a crying, frightened boy. She rested a hand against his cheek. He felt warm, too warm. 

“Poor Doctor,” she said softly.

He sighed and closed his eyes as he leaned into her touch.

“I’ll leave,” he said after a moment.  “Let me rest for a bit and I’ll leave, as you asked.”

“You can’t help being ill,” she said, as much to herself as to him.  “I’ll figure something out. Maybe I can convince everyone the supply cupboard is being painted for the third time.  In a month.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Clara smiled and then consulted her watch.  “I’ll be back in an hour, okay? Try to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

 

After the last group of students had left campus for the day, Clara hung back near the supply room, trying to keep out of sight.  She waved to a few colleagues who called out to her but Clara pretended to be too busy on her phone to chat.  Rude, she knew, but necessary nonetheless. After the halls grew quiet and she was certain no one was watching her, she nipped into the room, hoping the WET PAINT, PLEASE KEEP OUT sign she’d taped up earlier would keep any stragglers away.

When she entered the TARDIS, the Doctor was sitting exactly where she’d left him.  He was dozing, the hood of his jacket pulled up, chin resting on his chest and the handkerchief balled tightly in one fist.  She’d been gone longer than expected and he’d probably not eaten or bothered getting anything to drink in all that time.  And he was going to have one stiff neck when he woke up.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she said, touching his shoulder. 

He startled awake and his breath caught as a grimace of pain contorted his face.  “Ow.”

“Yeah, I know,” Clara said, working her fingers into the tight knot of muscle on his neck.  He made a soft noise of pleasure and she deepened the pressure, feeling him relax under her hands.  “How are you feeling?”

“Cold,” he said, his voice raspy and congested.  “And I’m aching all over, my throat hurts, I can’t breathe through my nose and my entire head is throbbing.”

Clara shook her head.  “I didn’t ask for a detailed symptoms list.”

“Sorry,” he said, shivering and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “I feel awful, how’s that?”

“Succinct,” Clara said, moving toward the console controls. “I’ll see what I can do to make you more comfortable in a bit but first, we need to move.”

“Armchair?” he suggested.  “Or a proper bedroom, perhaps.  I could do with a lie-down.”

Clara brushed her hand across the levers and dials, trying to puzzle out any system of logic to the layout. 

“No, not you,” she said.  “We need to move the TARDIS before anyone finds us.”

She waited for his sudden fit of coughing to pass before continuing.

“Are those telepathic panels still active?” she asked.  They were viscous and unpleasant to use and she’d rather not but needs must.

“I don’t know,” he said, pulling the edges of his jacket more tightly around himself. “Why?”

“Because you’re in no shape to pilot the TARDIS,” she said.  “And I’m not sure how to work the controls.  We could end up anywhere.”

“But Clara, you’re here now.”

“So?”

“So I didn’t bring the TARDIS to you,” he explained.  “I’d parked her in a relatively quiet corner of the vortex so I could recover, but then I fell asleep…or I passed out, I’m a little fuzzy on the details. But I don’t remember anything until you kicked me awake.”

“She brought you to me?” It was beginning to make sense now and Clara wasn’t sure if she felt touched or frightened or overwhelmed.

“She did,” he said. “If I’m alone and in trouble, she always seems to find you.”

“And now that we’re together,” Clara said, “the TARDIS will take us back?”

As if in agreement, the quiet drone of the engines increased in volume and the time rotor began to whirl.  Clara watched the central column, feeling the giddy swoop in her stomach that accompanied flight.

“But why me?” she asked turning back to face him.  “Of all the people in the universe, why does she bring you to me?”

He snugged the hood around his head tightly, so tight that only messy curls and the end of his nose were visible. He remained silent but before Clara could repeat her question, he spoke quietly.

“Because you love me.”

Her breath caught at the stark, simple statement.  Somehow she knew it would be like this.  All those moments they’d shared, skirting around the obvious; when all the tangled emotions were finally put into words, of course it would be now, when he was miserably sick.

“I do?”

“I don’t know,” he said.  “But the TARDIS seems to think so.”

He ducked his head to muffle a sneeze.  Clara leaned in and kissed him on the forehead.

“TARDIS knows best,” she said.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to an anonymous prompt at the Doctor Who Hurt/Comfort blog. Hope you're feeling better soon, nonny!


End file.
